


Magic Isn't Real

by unspoken_code



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fun, Gen, I Don't Even Know, No Plot/Plotless, for now, please try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unspoken_code/pseuds/unspoken_code
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione is attacked in the street, she Apparates to the first place she can think of- the pool she used to go to with her family. Unfortunately, another confrontation is already taking place in the same pool... (Rated T for mild swears every once in while. Barely, though.) Basically just Sherlock and John interacting with Hermione and other members of the wizarding world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! In the middle of both updating and editing this story in order for it to comply with future possible plots. Hermione is in her late twenties, because she has to seem young but not too young. And thus, the other characters are older as well. Sorry for the crazy change. Another thing I’d just like to note: in this universe, Hermione’s parents were killed by Death Eaters despite her Obliviation of them.  
> Also, this is just a slight AU alteration: 221c is livable.

“I’m soooo changea-” Moriarty pauses when he sees the crumpled form lying on the ground.

“Who is this?” he asks, looking curious. Well, everyone in the room was curious, for goodness’ sake- the girl had simply appeared out of thin air!

“We- we don’t know,” John answers, feeling anxious and oddly protective of this woman- girl, really- he had never met.

“Oh, really?” Moriarty grins, amused. “Well, well, well. Look at her, boys.” He studies her intensely. She is in terrible shape- barely conscious, bruised and scraped, with gashes and scars all over to boot. She is cradling her arm, which is twisted at an odd angle. The whole scene is very bizarre. Then, of course, the mystery girl decides to speak up at quite possibly the worst moment she could.

“Help…” she croaks weakly, and, calming his breathing, John very slowly crawls over to where she is lying down.

“John!” Sherlock hisses. “What are you doing?”

“She’s hurt!” John whisper-yells. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

“But- Moriarty!” Sherlock says incredulously. Moriarty smirks.

“I am well aware of him!” John seethes. He runs his fingers lightly over some of her cuts and injuries, feeling worried. There are no medical supplies around, and she is losing blood quickly. Ignoring the red dots on his and Sherlock’s backs, he takes off his cardigan and presses it to some of her more urgent wounds.

Luckily for them, at that moment Moriarty’s phone chooses to ring- his ringtone is, rather auspiciously, “Staying Alive.” He wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes a little.

“Do you mind if I get that?” he asks Sherlock tiredly.

“Oh, no, please,” Sherlock responds, sounding all too polite for the situation. “You’ve got the rest of your life.” Moriarty nods and answers the call.

“Hello?” he says. “Yes, of course it is. What do you want?” He mouths “sorry” to Sherlock, who in turn mouths, “oh, it’s fine,” in response. Moriarty turns around slowly, pacing. Suddenly, he whips around, fury in his eyes.

“SAY THAT AGAIN!” he yells. “Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will skin you.” John is only barely paying attention, more focused on the girl in front of him.

“Wait,” Moriarty walks towards Sherlock, John, and the strange girl. “Sorry, wrong day to die.”

“Oh, did you get a better offer?” Sherlock asks casually. Moriarty looks down at his phone, then turns and starts walking away.

“You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock,” he says. “And so will she.” He points at the nearly-dead girl, smiling briefly before returning to his call.

“So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.” With the final threat, he leaves the pool. Sherlock checks for any possible assassins still present, then turns to John. John is still trying to keep the girl alive.

“We need to take her to a hospital,” he says.

“N-no,” the girl finally speaks. “Not the h-hospital, please. I can just-” She tries to sit up, but John gently pushes her back down.

“Okay, but at least let me take care of your injuries,” he answers.

“I’m fine, really,” she says.

“It doesn’t look like it, does it?” John, with a little effort, scoops her up into his arms.

“Come on, Sherlock, help me get her back to Baker Street.” Sherlock looks at him.

“Wait,” he says. “Don’t you want to know how she got here? She appeared out of thin air!”

“Sherlock!” John says sharply. “There is a life at stake. For God’s sake, help me take her somewhere we can save her!” Wisely choosing to save the interrogation and the speculation for later, when the subject in question isn’t delirious with pain, Sherlock helps John bring her home. 

oOo

Hermione isn’t fully awake when they bring her to 221b Baker Street. The whole ordeal has taken a toll on her, and her memories of recent events loop over and over again in her brain.

A rogue Death Eater, cornering her in a dark alleyway.

“I’ve got you now, Mudblood!”

A battle, strong hexes, jinxes, and spells being hurled at the speed of light.

“Do you really, Dolohov?”

Injury after injury, pain after pain.

“Oh yes,” he grins, yellow teeth glinting in the moonlight.

It’s too much. She can’t take it. She’s running out of power.

“You-” she hisses, drawing out the last of her energy, “-WISH!”

She Apparates to the swimming pool in London she always used to go to.

She’s not alone.

Someone is trying to help her.

“Look at her, boys.”

“You’ll be hearing from me...and so will she.”

She doesn’t really pay attention to any of what the two strangers who are supposedly helping her say. She has no idea where she is. Her mind is whirring, trying to find a way out, but she’s too weak. She’ll have to regain her energy till she can fight, and hope she doesn’t die before then. Hermione falls asleep.

oOo

The girl is still asleep after John has already bandaged and treated the worst of her injuries. She looks peaceful in her slumber, her face still drawn and pale, but lacking the twisted expression of pain she wore when she was awake. Her bushy hair is matted with blood and sweat, and she’s covered with grime.

He’s busily working on her while Sherlock paces, his brain searching desperately for an explanation for this occurrence. John knows that Sherlock will drive himself mad if he doesn’t find a reason for what happened, and to be honest it’s kind of funny to see him so… lost. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know the answer to something! If John wasn’t so wrapped up in healing the girl, he would laugh at the thought.

He notices a particularly nasty gash he had missed on her left shoulder. He takes off her shirt (luckily for modesty’s sake there’s a tank top underneath) to get a good look at that arm. He is so concentrated on her shoulder that he almost didn’t see the scar.

The word “MUDBLOOD” is printed in large, jagged letters on her arm. The skin around it is fairly healed, but the scars haven’t faded one bit. He suspects that the word had some sort of secret meaning he wasn’t privy to, but he could easily tell it was a derogatory word. One that was supposed to mark her, to separate her from her peers. It was clearly borne of torture. What had this girl gone through?

“Sherlock,” he says quietly. “Come here.” He nods towards the girl.

“What? What is it?” Sherlock goes to where John is kneeling. John points at the scar.

“Can you do your analysing thing right now? I want to know about this girl before she wakes up and you do it and she immediately leaves.”

“Okay. Hmm…” Sherlock appraises her. “Bushy, untamed hair, so she doesn’t care about her appearance, but her clothes are, or rather, were, meticulously well-kept and matching, which suggests that she is not sloppy, only with an extreme disregard for what others may consider ‘beauty.’ Even in her sleep, she clutches both that carved wooden stick, which means multiple things. One, that the stick is a weapon, because her body is rigid even when she is supposed to be relaxed, which means she is on alert at all times, and there is no other reason someone who is that tense holds anything in their sleep; two, she has PTSD, judging by the frown lines and the immeasurable amount of scars on her body- no one goes through what she has and comes out either mentally or physically unscathed; three, she is a soldier, which was perhaps the easiest deduction of all, because of all of the other things. She has been through torture and has faced imminent death many times, and is quite a skilled fighter as well, since she’s managed to escape every time. But the real question is, what was she fighting? She is too young to be a soldier in this country, and she had a London accent when she spoke earlier, so she would have been a soldier in this country had she been old enough. So this must have been an underground war. But how could one person sustain so much damage- and I suspect she isn’t alone in this, because generally everyone in wars get scars- and not arouse government intervention? That is what we need to ask her when she wakes up. What does the stick mean? What was she fighting for? What does ‘Mudblood’ mean? And also,” he leans in to take a closer look, “she has a ginger cat.” Satisfied with his assessment, he sits in his chair and puts his hands together, clasped under his chin.

After a couple of minutes of silence, the girl stirs. John taps her on the shoulder lightly.

“Hello?” he speaks softly. “Can you hear me? What’s your name?” The girl’s eyes shoot open and she jumps onto the couch, standing. Despite being scared out of his mind, John is fairly impressed at her agility.

“Quick reflexes,” Sherlock murmurs. “Don’t be threatening. She’s clearly on guard.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” John begins cautiously. “Look, we even fixed you up a little bit. We just want to know some things about you.” The girl thinks for a moment, then smirks and hops off the couch and takes a seat. She’s smiling as if she knows something they don’t, which could very well be the truth.

“Penelope,” she says. “Penelope Clearwater.”

“Well, Penelope,” John says. “Um, can we ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead.” She’s not even trying to hold in her smile.

“What does ‘Mudblood’ mean? What were you fighting against? What is that stick?” Sherlock asks her rapid-fire questions.

“I have dirty blood, bad people, and you don’t need to know,” she shoots back, not at all surprised by what Sherlock figured out. Sherlock is definitely shocked by that, though his eyes only widen infinitesimally and his lips barely twitch. “May I leave now?”

She doesn’t give them time to answer, as she disappears again.

“Did you notice that tic in her right eye? Fascinating,” Sherlock murmurs.

oOo

Hermione knows she probably shouldn’t have Disapparated like that, given the Statute of Secrecy and all, but she couldn’t help it. The men had already seen her disappear once, so what did it matter if she did it one more time? Harry and Ron always told her to take more risks, so why shouldn’t she? Technically the first time was a mistake, so no one could fault her for doing it again. She Apparates to Ginny and Harry’s flat, giving them quite a scare.

“Hermione! What are you doing here?” Ginny exclaims. Ginny gives her a warm hug.

“I...I may have made a mistake,” Hermione replies. Ginny sighs.

“What did you do, ‘Mione?”

“I,” she pauses to take a deep breath, “I Apparated and Disapparated in front of Muggles.” She cringed, waiting for the backlash that was sure to come.

“And you didn’t Obliviate them? ‘Mione, come on! It’s a simple Memory Charm! Ugh, I suppose it’s too late now. And they call you the brightest witch of our age.”

“I just didn’t think of it!”

“What even happened?”

“Well, Dolohov cornered me in an alleyway and was about to finish me off when I Disapparated to the pool where my aunt and uncle used to take me when I visited them as a child. I thought it would be empty, but it wasn’t, and these men were talking, one was threatening the other, but I was so hurt I went unconscious. And then I woke up in two of the guys’ flat, I suppose. It seemed like one of them healed me. They asked me a few questions, I evaded them, and then I Disapparated.”

“Wow,” Ginny says. “Fun. Did you at least manage to get a few good hits in on Dolohov?”

“I think I took away further use of at least one limb, if not two.”

“Great!” Ginny cheers. “I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Yeah, well...why don’t we move on?”

“Okay,” Ginny smirks at Hermione’s obvious disappointment in herself. “How’s the flat-hunting going?”

“Not bad,” says Hermione, relieved to be rid of that conversation. “My great-aunt said I could stay in her building. I was actually on my way to check out the flat when Dolohov found me.”

“Oh, cool! What’s your aunt’s name, again?”

“Martha, Martha Hudson."

oOo

John scrubs the rug furiously, eager to wash away any reminder of the girl. She got blood on the carpet, and Sherlock has already taken some blood “samples” and started to experiment. He’s still trying to get the stains out when Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs.

“Boys!” she calls, far too chipper.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” John says, resigned to the fact the the blood is never going to come out of the floor.

“I just came up to tell you and- Where’s Sherlock? Sherlock!” she calls. He comes out of the kitchen with sterilised gloves on.

“What, Mrs. Hudson?” he asks impatiently.

“My great niece is moving into 221C tomorrow! You two will get along marvelously with her, she loves to read, and she’s very pretty, of course-”

“What’s her name?” John interrupts.

“Oh, Hermione. Lovely name, really, very Shakespearean. I can’t wait for you two to meet her! Why don’t we all have dinner together tomorrow night, then? I’m sure she will be excited to meet you both, as well.” Mrs. Hudson chatters on excitedly.

“Absolutely,” John says just to keep her quiet. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, dear, do you need help with that stain? Blood can be awfully tricky, I should know-” she whips a small spray canister and a rag out of her apron and within moments, the stain is gone. John looks at her, awed. She notices.

“Don’t look so surprised, dear, I’ve seen many a ‘permanent’ stain in my time. Well, till tomorrow, boys!” She bustles out of the flat, looking very satisfied with herself. John sighs and Sherlock returns to his experiment.

oOo

“Ginny, would you like to come with me to my great aunt’s? I’m sure she won’t mind me bringing an extra guest to dinner.”

“That works out well, actually, because Harry is going out with the rest of the Aurors for a drink, Ron included.” Ginny winks at Hermione.

“Ginny, are you still on that? Ron’s like a brother to me; it’s practically incest when I kiss him! Not to mention your mum is basically my foster mum, so that just adds to the weirdness.”

“Just saying,” Ginny grins impishly. “I’d love to have dinner at your aunt’s.”

“Great!” Hermione answers. “Come over at, say, seven? It’s 221C Baker Street.”

“No problem.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, there’s a shriek and a crash downstairs. John looks up from his laptop at Sherlock.

“D’you think we should go see what’s wrong down there?” he asks.

“We’ll find out soon enough- if it’s bad enough Mrs. Hudson will come up here in about…” Sherlock checks the clock. “Thirty seconds.” 

Sure enough, just about thirty seconds later- “ha, twenty-nine seconds, you’re losing your touch, Sherlock”- Mrs. Hudson scampers up the stairs. But she’s not alone. A slight figure is behind her.

“Oh, boys! We were moving in the new mattress and Hermione here tripped and knocked over the credenza… do you mind helping us?” Mrs. Hudson smiles at them hopefully. “Oh, and I forgot, this is my great niece Hermione! Come on, dear!” She beckons the figure forth and the girl complies. She steps forward and for a moment, John thinks that she’s just a girl. But no. This is the woman from the pool, the one who disappeared so randomly. It appears that she’s in her late twenties or so. She’s quite pretty when she’s awake, he notices absentmindedly. She’s not plain, as her frizzy brown hair and seemingly dull brown eyes would suggest. She has an inner spark of knowledge and kindness in them, and she has a natural sort of beauty without using makeup. Now that he thinks about it, she looks like someone he would possibly be interested in. It’s clear she puts little to no effort into her appearance, yet she exudes strength and something John can’t quite put his finger on.

Awake, being able to have a good look at her, John notices that she seems rather cheerful for someone who had been tortured before- that is, before she recognizes John and Sherlock. Then, her eyes widen and she gasps. 

“Merlin’s beard!” She exclaims, then holds her head in her hands, rubbing her temples lightly until Mrs. Hudson speaks up.

“What, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks, concern clouding her features. The girl looks up and quickly composes herself.

“Nothing, Auntie Martha,” she says. She sticks out her hand. “Hermione Granger.”

She gives John a look- a “not-here-or-I’ll-gut-you-like-a-fish” sort of face. He clears his throat and smiles politely, shaking her hand. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn’t get the message.

“You’re the disappearing girl,” he says tactlessly. Hermione raises her eyebrows. “Your parents are dentists, judging by the immaculate state of your teeth, and you were clearly top of your class- you keep rubbing your shoulders, which means you must have residual strain on them from a too-heavy knapsack. Hm… I believe we’d have a lot to talk about. Why don’t you come in and have a little chat?”

“Ah, good observations, Mr. Holmes,” she says, oddly not put off by the impersonal analysis. “Except you missed something.”

“What?” Sherlock asks tersely. 

“I…” Mrs. Hudson is trying to think of an excuse to escape the tension. “I have to go fix dinner, dears. I’ll come back up when it’s ready.” She scurries away quickly.

Hermione clears her throat.

“You said my parents are dentists,” she speaks softer this time, obviously saddened. “I believe you mean ‘were.’ ” John frowns. This isn’t the only thing that has caused her trauma, but it is certainly a part of it. Not to mention that for a second-time meeting, this is strangely emotional. That’s what I missed, he thinks. She’s a little broken inside- but healing.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock mutters, and he stares at her as if he is trying to see her memories and why she is such an enigma. Unlike most in the presence of “scary Sherlock,” the girl holds her ground. Her brown eyes are piercing, battling with Sherlock’s bright blue ones. 

“You said you wanted to chat?” she breaks the silence.

“Of course,” Sherlock says smoothly, still not taking his eyes off of the woman.

“Well, let’s hear it then,” she smiles thinly. “All the questions, the deductions. I’m assuming you tried to figure me out while I was asleep.”

“Can you blame us?” John asks. “We didn’t know who you were, and you were in our house.”

“No, I suppose not.” Her face loses some of its haughtiness. She wrinkles her nose. “Still, it’s quite rude. You could have asked.”

“You almost attacked us when you woke up,” John points out. She grimaces.

“Force of habit,” she counters.

“And then,” Sherlock speaks up, “you disappeared.”

“No, I didn’t,” the girl says. “I walked out of the door, like a normal person. Clearly you two were too inebriated to notice.”

“We were not drunk!” John says incredulously.

“Sure, definitely,” the girl says sarcastically.

“We had just rescued you from an evil psychopath! We were not drunk!” 

“Then how else do you explain why you think I disappeared into thin air? You were either drunk or high,” she insists. John rolls his eyes.

“We weren’t. But since you seem so intent on believing that, let’s put that topic to rest, shall we?” 

“Okay,” she concedes. “Ask me your questions. Let’s get this out of the way.”

` “Your name?” Sherlock asks.

“Hermione Granger,” she answers. 

“What about the scar?” Hermione looks unsettled at this question. She swallows before answering.

“Which one?” she forces out. Sherlock is oblivious to her discomfort.

“The one on your forearm, the one that says ‘Mudblood.’ What does it mean?” Hermione’s expression hardens and her eyes become distant and cold. This change in expression is not lost on Sherlock or John.

“Perhaps I was,” she says vaguely. “Perhaps I wasn’t.”

“Of course you were,” Sherlock says disdainfully. “The question is why?” 

“You don’t need to know.” She stands up. “This was a bad idea. Don’t come near me again.” With that, she starts to leave. Sherlock quickly blocks the door. For a moment, she looks like she’s debating something, like possibly disappearing again?- but she decides against it. 

“What do you want?” she grits her teeth.

“I will get answers,” Sherlock says in a deadly voice. “I don’t care what I have to do.” This is pretty callous, even for Sherlock, so John is about to step in on the girl’s behalf when, much to his astonishment, she laughs. It’s a bitter, broken chuckle that shouldn’t be coming out of a girl this young.

“No, you won’t,” she smiles grimly. “You can try, certainly. But you won’t succeed. No one ever has.”

“Ah!” Sherlock crows. “So they were trying to get information from you, interesting. What information?” Hermione looks peeved. She sighs.

“Yes,” she grumbles, suddenly losing her fire. “They thought I had taken something.They wanted to know how, and why, and where the damn thing was.” 

“What was it?” Sherlock inquires. 

“That you don’t need to know,” she says resolutely. Sherlock tries another tactic.

“What war was it?” 

“Still none of your business.”

“What is that stick you have in your pocket?”

“Nope.”

“Why do you have so many scars?”

“Do you really think I’d answer that?”

` “What can I pay you so that you’ll answer my questions?”

“Your immortal soul.”

“Really?”

“No! Goodness, for someone Auntie Martha calls brilliant, you are quite stupid.”

“Let’s try an easy one, then. Have you heard of me before?”

“Auntie Martha mentions you a lot.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

“What?” Now Hermione seems dumbfounded. “I’ve never… I don’t know anything about you besides your name and the fact that you’re supposedly brilliant but really you’re not.” Sherlock glares at her.

“So it was an underground war, one that kept you occupied, on the run most likely, for an extended period of time.” he deduces triumphantly.

“How did you know?” 

“I’m famous,” he says smugly. She frowns.

“Are you sure?” she asks dubiously. John has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It’s not every day that Sherlock is dressed down by anyone, much less a girl such as this.

“Of course I’m sure,” he snaps. He seems to be on the verge of violence, which John takes as a cue to jump in.

“Look,” he says in a calm voice, “We just want to know about you, and you’re not helping. There’s obviously something you’re hiding, we can see that much. I’ll give you some easy ones, okay?”

“Only if you answer some of mine.” She lifts her chin up at them.

“Of course, we’ve nothing to hide,” John says pointedly. Sherlock clears his throat and glares at Hermione. She glares back. 

“Of course you don’t,” she gripes. “Get on with it, then.”

“When did you start fighting in this war?” John asks.

“I started when I was eleven, technically. You know what- look, I don’t want to relive this. You can imagine, can’t you, John? Being a war veteran and all?”

“How did you-” John is stunned. No one has been able to deduce such a thing, besides Sherlock. His psychosomatic limp is gone, and so, he thought, were all physical traces of his time in Afghanistan.

“Your posture, mostly,” Hermione answers. “You’re too tense. Plus you’ve still got a tremor in your hand. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I still have seizures occasionally. Nothing too intense anymore, but I know how it is to feel like you’ve never really left.”

“Well,” John says. He’s shell-shocked.

“Back to you,” Sherlock interrupts rudely. 

“This is tiring. I’ll tell you the basics, that’s all. Okay?”

“Naturally. And if we need you to elaborate on it, you will,” Sherlock chimes in. “Won’t you?”

“Within reason.” Hermione smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “So. I went to an… isolated boarding school in Scotland, very private. There was a man who wanted to get rid of all those he considered of dirty blood.” She gestured to herself. “He was certifiably insane. When I was eleven, he started targeting the school and people in it, especially my best friend Harry. Harry’s parents had almost destroyed that man, and he never got over the grudge. Riddle, was his name. Tom Riddle. Throughout our years, he killed many people and finally, Harry defeated him. But, uh,” she looks uncomfortable, and her voice drops to a whisper, “I was, er, tortured for a while before that happened. I never gave up any information, so I have scars everywhere. It was horrible.” She draws in a shaky breath. “That’s my story. That’s all I can tell you. Now please, please don’t pry or look into this. Just take me at my word and forget about it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Sherlock regards her coolly. “This is far too interesting to pass up.” Hermione sighs. 

“Then I’ll just have to-” she’s interrupted by a knock on the apartment door. John crosses the room to open it. A heavily pregnant girl about the same age as Hermione waits impatiently. The first thing John notices about her is her flaming orange hair with freckles to match. Judging by the way she fidgets and bounces on her heels waiting in the doorway, John decides that the hair suits her. It’s a feat few could pull off. Honestly, it’s rather impressive. 

“Hello!” she chirps cheerfully. “Mrs. Hudson said Hermione was up here. May I come in?” John tilts his head to the side slightly. 

“Ye-yes, of course.” He smiles politely and opens the door wider so she can bound in- far too energetically for one who is pregnant, John thinks- and gives Hermione a quick hug.

“You must be Sherlock and John,” the girl says. “Mrs. Hudson told me about you two.” Hermione whispers something in the girl’s ear. Her eyes widen.

“That’s- those are the Muggles you were talking about? ‘Mione, how did you end up moving into a flat below the specific Muggles that would be worst to have as neighbors? What is it with you and your luck?” the girl hisses. Hermione gives her a dirty look.

“If I knew, would I have moved here? Come on, Gin. Give me some credit. Anyways, they know about… pretty much everything but the-” And then Hermione’s voice drops too low for John to pick up. He clears his throat. They both look at him, surprised, as if they have forgotten he’s there. 

“Oh, how silly of me!” The girl steps away from Hermione and sticks out her hand. “Ginny’s the name. Ginny Potter.” John and Sherlock look at each other- this girl is definitely a friend of Hermione who knows what she’s hiding, maybe even took part in the “underground war” Hermione fought in. John shakes her hand, as well as Sherlock. 

“So, uh… Mrs. Hudson says that dinner's nearly ready. Shall we go downstairs?” Ginny breaks through the awkward silence following the handshakes. They nod in agreement and head downstairs for what is certain to be a delicious, albeit awfully tense dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Hudson has made a delicious dinner. It comes with a refreshing side of awkwardness, though Mrs. Hudson repeatedly tries to rectify that through the offering of more food. Ginny is the first one to truly break the silence, however.

“So, are you two…” She waves her fork at John and Sherlock, wiggling her eyebrows obscenely. 

“Why does everyone-” John shakes his head. “-No. We’re not dating.” Ginny looks more than a little disappointed at this admission.

“Well, maybe you can date ‘Mione! She’s single, bookish, tons of fun-” 

“Ignore her, she’s being irritating-” Hermione interjects.

“-absolutely loves anything scholarly, you know the type-”

“Ginevra Molly Weasley, if you even-”

“-she’s especially adorable when she loses her temper! Look now, her face is all red and scrunched up, though I can’t imagine why-”

“WEASLEYETTE!” Hermione finally cracks and raises her voice. Ginny narrows her eyes, but wisely stays silent. There’s little noise for the next few minutes, save for the gentle clinking of forks scraping up food. Finally Ginny breaks through the silence again.

“So, what do you fellows do?” She asks with her mouth full. Sherlock looks mildly disgusted at this, and grimaces.

“I am a consulting detective,” he says.

“Interesting!” Ginny grins, her eyes lighting up. “Do you solve cases and such?”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock replies. 

“I wish I could do that,” she sighs. “Unfortunately, I got knocked up by some idiot.”

“Oh, one-night stand?” Mrs. Hudson pipes in sympathetically.

“No, no,” Ginny shakes her head. “He’s my husband. Still an idiot, though.”

“She’s married to Harry, my friend I told you about,” Hermione informs the rest of the table.

“Did you go to Hermione’s school as well?” John asks.

“Yeah, she was in the year above me.”

“And what school was this?” John inquires politely, trying not to seem too intrusive. Ginny gives Hermione a sideways glance and Hermione shakes her head a fraction. Ginny smiles brightly at John and stands up.

“Well, it looks like we’re all done here, doesn’t it? Martha, would you like me to help you clean up and get ready for dessert and tea?” 

“That would be lovely, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replies, rising from the table along with Ginny and following her into the kitchen, more than a little bemused.

“So much for subtlety,” Hermione grumbles. The corner of John’s lips curls upwards a bit. Sherlock seems to be deep in thought, not even paying attention to the conversation at hand. There’s a lengthy silence before he blinks hard and peers closer at her. 

“Tell me,” he begins in an inquisitive voice, “what is that stick of yours, the one you keep clutching?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Hermione says, then lifts her chin up and folds her arms across her chest as if to make a point. 

“Don’t play that with me. I know you’re hiding something. I intend to find it.”

“Fantastic,” she replies coolly. “Good to know.” 

“You sound like Mycroft,” he complains. Hermione’s head tilts up in interest.

“You mean Mycroft Holmes?” 

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock leans forward. “Do you know him?”

“So that’s where I recognized your,” she waves her hand at him, “manner. Of course! How could I not see it before?”

“You know Mycroft.”

She blinks at him, snapping out of her epiphany. 

“Naturally,” she says. “He’s an ambassador of sorts for our- wait a minute. Nope. My lips are sealed.” 

Sherlock groans in frustration. 

“How do you know him?”

At that moment, Ginny and Mrs. Hudson burst out of the kitchen, hands full of platters of biscuits and assorted sweets. 

“Dessert!” Ginny sings. As she sets the platter on the table she pauses. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Gin!” Hermione elbows her. “That’s Mycroft’s brother!” Ginny frowns.

“You mean the one that knows everything and is always nagging Harry to add a Muggle investigative unit to the Aurors?”

“Yes, that one. Can you believe it?”

“Actually, I can,” Ginny says. She squints at Sherlock. “Yeah, I definitely see it.”

“What?” John is more than a little confused. Mycroft is a private, important person. How does this random girl know him? 

“I have to go,” Sherlock interrupts before he stands abruptly and leaves the room. Everyone stares at the door, wondering where Sherlock had gone this time. 

“Erm, I don’t think I’m hungry any more, Auntie Martha. Ginny and I are going to go to my flat. Good night!” Hermione quickly hops out of her seat and pecks Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. Ginny gives both John and Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look as she follows Hermione. John makes his excuses too and leaves. He really needs to see what Sherlock is up to.

oOo

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s knuckles are white from how tightly he’s gripping the phone. Mycroft is serene, definitely not even trying to keep the haughtiness out of his voice. 

“What is it, brother mine?” 

“Hermione Granger,” Sherlock says.

“I assume you’ve recently met her, then?” 

“Tell me about her, Mycroft.”

“You don’t have the security clearance.”

“Ah, how well smugness suits you.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to do to bother me?” Mycroft’s voice is dry and bored.

“Tell me.” 

“Must I reiterate my previous statement? You do not have the clearance.”

“Why is she so important?”

“Let us just say that she has been an asset to our esteemed nation.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighs. 

“I suppose you would find out sooner or later. I’ll send someone for you.” He hangs up abruptly. Sherlock smiles before putting on his coat and heading down the stairs to meet Mycroft.

oOo

“What do you know about witchcraft?”

Mycroft and Sherlock sit across from one another in the Diogenes Club, completely alone. Not even one of Mycroft’s henchmen grace the doorways, so Sherlock assumes this really is a classified conversation. 

“Witchcraft?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. This is unexpected. “Burnings of supposed witches commenced all throughout history, although some cultures revered magic-users. One of the most notable of which is the Salem Witch Trials in America, where a recorded twenty-four people, mostly women, were executed for consorting with the devil. Why?”

“Because, dear Sherlock, your Hermione Granger is a witch.”

“Impossible,” he answers quickly, because of course witchcraft doesn’t exist, but then he pauses. The thin stick she clutched- it could be a wand. The scars could have some sort of witch-inclusive meaning that he was not allowed to know. Most of all, her disappearance from their flat, which she had passed off as a drunken hallucination, simply oozed magic. She was a witch!

“I see you’ve worked it all out,” Mycroft remarks. Sherlock frowns.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. 

“No?” Mycroft looks far too amused for the topic of conversation. 

“No,” Sherlock asserts firmly. No, it’s impossible. Magic is impossible. Magic is impossible, science is real, he tells himself. It’s what he told himself as a child, when dreams of pirating and dragons seemed remotely feasible. Magic isn’t real. Magic isn’t real. Magic is not real.

“Why don’t you ask her?” Mycroft interrupts his reverie. Sherlock nods slowly. His brain simply cannot process this. All of his life, he has frowned upon those who believe in magic, in love, in miracles. To know that one of those is real is mind-boggling, absurd. It goes against not only his beliefs but his total way of thinking. He was wrong. John will never let him hear the end of it. But he needs evidence. He needs to see it to believe it. 

“Take me home, Mycroft,” Sherlock orders.

It’s time to have a chat with Hermione Granger. 

oOo

Meanwhile, Hermione and Ginny are in 221C, chatting and having refreshments. 

“I like your friends,” Ginny says, smirking, as Hermione gets them both glasses. Hermione shakes her head with a disbelieving look on her face.

“They’re not my friends,” Hermione laughs. Although, come to think of it- they do know more about her than any of her Muggle friends, what with Sherlock’s uncalled-for observations and her Disapparation. 

“Well, I expect they will be,” Ginny answers breezily. “You’ll all be living in the same building, after all. These things happen.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” says Hermione. She pours them both some water. “I’ll have to tell them, eventually, but that’s breaking the law. Maybe I could talk to Kingsley? Or you could get Harry to explain it to him- everyone likes Harry.”

“Well, Mycroft could tell him,” Ginny suggests.

“I’ll call him now.” Hermione nods and picks up her phone, still clutching her cup. Mycroft picks up almost immediately.

“Miss Granger,” he says by way of greeting.

“Mr. Holmes,” she responds, mimicking his formal tone. 

“I presume you are worried about the Statute of Secrecy?”

“Ah- yes, actually,” Hermione replies, sticking her nose up in the air for added effect.

“I shall see if I can arrange a solution. Now, I believe in less than five minutes you should be expecting a visit from my brother.” 

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“My pleasure,” he says dryly. Hermione hangs up and turns to Ginny.

“Prepare for the onslaught of questions, my dear Ginevra.”

Ginny sits up straighter in her seat.

Sherlock arrives in about three minutes and thirty seconds, according to Hermione’s estimation. The door is open, so he lets himself in.

“Hello,” she says slowly, tense. Sherlock lifts his chin in response. 

“So…” he begins. “Magic.”

Hermione waits. 

“You can imagine I want proof.”

She nods and takes out her wand. Sherlock takes it from her hand.

“May I?” he asks. 

“A bit too late for that,” Ginny mutters from her perch on the couch. Sherlock is busy inspecting the vines that trail up the handle of the wooden stick. After looking at all there is to be looked at, he gives it back to her.

“Show me what you can do,” he says. “Besides the disappearing.”

Hermione grasps her wand tightly, the handle just a little slick from sweat. 

“Wingardium Leviosa!” One of the cups levitates from the table, wobbling in the air. She makes sure not to spill any of its contents on the floor. After a few seconds of this, she carefully lowers it back to the coffee table. Sherlock is eerily still, eyes fixed on where the glass just was. 

“More!” he demands, much as a spoilt child would. Hermione relaxes slightly and a tiny smile snakes its way across her face. She lifts her wand again.

“Accio biscuits!” A box of biscuits zooms from the kitchen into her outstretched hand. 

Sherlock remains silent and unfocused for quite some time before he speaks.

“I suppose your ‘isolated school in Scotland’ was for magic.”

“Yes, it was. Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry,” she adds as an afterthought. 

“Tell me about… Hogwarts.”

“Well, the four Founders-”she begins.

“‘Mione, what are you doing?” Ginny asks.

“I was going to explain Hogwarts to him, and the history of it.”

Ginny coughs meaningfully.

“Oh! Oh,” Hermione says, shaking her head and smiling. “Here, Sherlock.” She hands him a thick leather-bound book that appears to be in mint condition, titled “Hogwarts: a History: Updated Edition.” He begins to flip through the pages quickly, scanning the text.

“Read this, and it’ll tell you all you need to know. Just don’t tell anyone, please. I can’t have anyone else know.”

Sherlock bristles, not enjoying taking orders from the petite woman. However, he takes the book. 

“This will tell me everything?”

“Just come back to me if you have any questions,” Hermione responds. Her eyes dart towards the door. “Well, if that’s all…”

“Not quite yet,” Sherlock interrupts. “Why is your name in here?”

“Read it,” she says simply. “It’ll tell you what you need to know.” He nods and abruptly leaves without so much as a goodbye. Ginny looks at Hermione, smothering a grin.

“He and Percy would be the best of friends, wouldn’t they?” she asks.

“Ugh, definitely.” Hermione rubs her eyes and collapses into the well-worn leather armchair, curling up into a ball. “But I’d love for him to meet your entire family- your mum, George, Charlie, Ron- especially your father. Then he’ll know what it’s like to have a person asking him so many questions!”

“True,” Ginny concedes as she takes a sip from her glass. “You should invite him to dinner with us one of these days, at the Burrow. Mum would go ballistic on him, saying he’s too thin and too cheeky. I would pay a lot of Galleons to see that happen.”

“I would, too,” Hermione says. 

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. If Hermione knew Sherlock at all- and really she didn’t, she just knew his behavior- he would certainly try to find a way into the wizarding world. Mr. Weasley’s incessant inquiries and the whole family’s friendliness toward Muggles would help him acclimate. Perhaps it could also keep him from doing anything too drastic, like trying to physically find his way into Diagon Alley, or some such idea. Truthfully, it was just like Ginny said. Hermione really just wanted to see Sherlock’s reaction to the boisterous warmth of the Weasleys.

“Well, I’m sure Mum wouldn’t mind inviting your new friends to family dinner on Sunday. Harry and I are coming, and so are George and Angelina. Actually, everyone’s coming. Mum loves to cook for large crowds. In fact, she’d be offended if you didn’t bring them.”

“I suppose.” Hermione considers this. It isn’t all too bad of an idea, really. At least it would be entertaining, if nothing else. 

oOo

Sherlock returns home, reading Hermione’s section of the book while walking. When he walks in, John confronts him. 

“Why did you leave? Mrs. Hudson practically had kittens when you left.”

“It was important.” Sherlock almost skips into the room.

“What is this?” John asks. Sherlock hands him the book, a leathery tome with gold lettering on the cover. 

“Hermione Granger!” he exclaims. “Her case was at least a nine! But now, now she’s solved. This,” he gestures to the book, “is our key to the entire wizarding world!”

John looks at him like he’s insane.

“Wizarding world?” 

John considers himself a rational person, one who is open-minded yet firm in his beliefs and knowledge. And if there is one thing John knows for sure, it is that wizards do not exist. For Sherlock to spout this kind of misinformation is troubling on multiple levels, the most prominent of which being that Sherlock Holmes is a scientific, logical being. If John didn’t know that Sherlock was practically incapable of having a sense of humor, he would’ve thought that he had been making a joke. 

“I am not making a joke, John,” Sherlock says, interrupting John’s thoughts. “Magic and wizardry exist, and this book proves it!” He has a smile that he usually reserves for serial killers on his face, eyes alight with enthusiasm. He flips the book until he gets to a chapter entitled ‘Heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts.’

“‘Hermione Jean Granger, the brightest witch of her age,” John reads. “Sherlock, what am I reading?”

“It’s an informational text from the magical school Hermione went to! When she was younger, she went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, met Harry Potter, fought in the Second War, and survived!”

John stared at him.

“You do realize that you sound absolutely mad right now.”

“No, no, no!” Sherlock looks more irritated than thrilled now, waiting for John to come to the same conclusions that he has. 

“Sherlock, maybe you should lie down-” John begins, but Sherlock has already taken the book out of his hand and is flipping through it rapidly. 

“Look!” He thrusts the book in John’s face, pointing at an image. It’s Hermione grinning next to a tall, lean ginger and a shorter, smiling man with jet-black hair. 

“What? It’s just a pic-” John pauses when he sees that it, in fact, is not a normal picture; this image moves like a video, except- as he fingers the page, he realizes- it’s on paper. 

He swallows heavily. 

“Wh- I don’t-”

“Magic is real, John. And we’ve met our very own witch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any idea where I'm going with this story, so if you have an idea, don't hesitate to comment below!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Information is revealed, stuff happens.

The next morning, Hermione wakes up quite abruptly on the couch when the sun peeks through the drapes and beams directly on her eyes. It doesn’t help that this is accompanied by Auntie Martha bustling around the flat.

“Oh, good morning, dear! I brought some tea!” Auntie Martha chirps gaily. 

“Er- good morning, Auntie Martha,” Hermione mumbles, removing the pillow from under her head so she can shield her eyes from the sun.

“Get up, love! Today’s a brand new day, and we still have to unload all of your dishes and such.” She takes away Hermione’s throw blanket and pillow, causing her to groan and curl into the fetal position. “Come on! Get up! I’ve made breakfast!”

This inspires her to truly wake up, stretching her arms to the ceiling, rubbing the morning crust out of her eyes, and clearing the fog in her mind. It occurs to her that Sherlock will soon arrive, probably with John, bearing millions upon millions of questions. Her head hurts just thinking about it. I should not have given him the book. I should not have even told him anything! I am a colossal idiot, she thinks. It’s undeniably true. Hermione would rather rest some more then confront them, but it doesn’t seem like Auntie Martha will make that an option. Her aunt shakes her shoulder lightly to spur her on, so Hermione yawns and sits up.

“I’m up, don’t worry,” Hermione says.

“Sherlock was up here earlier, you know. He wanted to ask you some questions or something, but of course I told him to wait until a normal time to wake you up. He’ll probably be up in a few minutes- sorry about that, dear.”

“No, it’s fine,” Hermione replies. She knows that it’s inevitable that Sherlock will come up, especially if he told John. 

“Well, I’m off, love,” her aunt says. “I’ve left some food in the fridge for you, so you should be fine for a few days.”

“Thanks, Auntie Martha,” Hermione says, grinning at her elderly aunt. It’s been years since Hermione has let her aunt baby her like this, and she has to admit it feels kind of nice. Auntie Martha used to be a frequent visitor in the Granger household, but after Hermione started at Hogwarts, she didn’t come over too often. Perhaps that was for the best, though; Hermione couldn’t possibly explain the various exploits that she, Harry, and Ron had gone on during the summers of her Hogwarts years. And then, of course, the years spent in hiding in a tent, and her parents’ murder. In the end, the Death Eaters had killed her parents despite the preventative measures she had taken. It still hurts when she thinks about the fact that they died for her, but didn’t even know who she was.

Hermione’s aunt leaves in a flutter of apron and lavender perfume, just as Sherlock and John come through the door. They stand at the threshold for a moment, as if waiting for an invitation. Hermione closes her eyes briefly and inhales through her nose. Collecting herself right now is crucial so she doesn’t reveal more information than intended. After all, she wants to keep some modicum of secrecy about the wizarding world, despite the all-too-real possibility of Sherlock finding everything out anyway, given his apparent deductive skills.

“Er… hello,” Hermione says with her eyes firmly fixed on John. She’s wary- after all, one can only have so much luck when it comes to the reactions of people after a huge secret is revealed. 

“Hello,” John replies. His gaze is shifty. He doesn’t stay focused at any one spot for long, and he certainly doesn’t meet Hermione’s eyes. She turns to address Sherlock, who has been patiently (for him, at least, since he is currently bouncing on the heels of his feet rather impatiently) waiting to speak.

“I suppose you showed him the book?” she asks.

“Yes, though he understandably has some doubts,” Sherlock answers. Hermione nods and faces John once more. 

“Are you okay?” It’s a silly thing to ask, but at the moment he looks quite un-okay. His face is taut with tension and his fists are clenched to his sides, although he tries to hide his uneasiness. It really is understandable to be uncomfortable around what to him is a new species. Sherlock took it well, but only because he observed all of her distinctly human habits and behaviors and came to the conclusion that she was close to being a human, if not completely so. Hermione still thinks that he is suspicious of her, because it’s in his nature to be untrusting and he isn’t totally aware of the limits of her magic and what she can do. But overall? Sherlock is not hostile, which is a good thing given that he would probably be a bad enemy to have.

“Fine,” John says quietly, if not curtly. “Are you really-”

“A witch?” Hermione interrupts. “Yes. Would you like proof?”

“If you could be so kind,” he mutters. Hermione ignores the slightly surly tone in his voice and slips her wand out of her belt.

“What would you like to see?” She sees Sherlock lift his head a little bit from the corner of her eye, curiosity piqued. 

“Anything?” John meets her gaze for the first time in this encounter and she smiles reassuringly at him. 

“Well, there are limits to my magic. For example, the Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration state that food and money can’t be multiplied or created and people can’t be brought back from the dead, to name a few. I guess it relates to the law of conservation of energy, although there are a few things that wizards can create out of thin air. Like the one time when I created a flock of birds- though, come to think of it, that wasn’t an actual creation of life, that was a temporary shape that my magic took. So I suppose we follow mostly the same basic laws of matter that you all follow, with a few exceptions and a lot of cheats.”

“Ah,” John says. “So what can you do?”

“There are different… types of magic, I guess you could say. The subjects they taught at school”-John looks bewildered at the mention of a magical school- “were Potions, Arithmancy, Charms, Divination (which I never particularly cared for), Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, Astronomy, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies. Technically I’m not supposed to do magic in front of a Muggle, let alone tell one about magic, but I’m sure Mycroft would’ve told you about it sooner or later, right, Sherlock?” 

“Later, knowing him,” Sherlock mumbles. The corner of Hermione’s mouth turns upward, but the faint smile disappears quickly.

“I might as well show you magic.” She’s mostly speaking to herself now, having spun around to face away from the men. “I already broke the Statute of Secrecy, multiple times, so stupid of me, but I might as well.” Hermione turns back to them. 

“Anything in particular you want to see? Healing spells, transfiguration? I showed Sherlock the levitation charm and the summoning charm, but I don’t think he was too impressed.” Sherlock nods, signaling his agreement with her.

John thinks for a moment.

“I- I, uh, got a paper cut this morning,” he says. Hermione nods.

“Where is it?”

John extends his shaky hand to her and she takes it, pointing her wand at a rather large slice on one of his fingers. Hermione can feel Sherlock hovering at her shoulder, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. Episkey.”

The skin around the edges of the cut knit together, leaving nary a mark to show that there was once an injury at that spot. Sherlock peers closer, eyes wide, staring at John’s hand. 

oOo

Both of them are too shocked for words. Even though Sherlock has witnessed magic before, it isn’t really anything compared to this, the visible defiance of all logic. Levitation tricks, summoning spells- none of them are special. This, though- this is almost beautiful in its simplicity, but it’s still beyond Sherlock’s comprehension, and that’s saying a lot. His mind is in chaos trying to process what he just saw and his perfectly organized mind palace is turning into rubble. Somehow the magic Hermione showed him before simply doesn’t compare to this. 

“H-how did you-”

“I think you know the answer to that, John,” Hermione says primly, a small smirk on her face. Sherlock yanks John’s finger from Hermione’s grasp to examine it. Seeing as there’s nothing extraordinary about the skin there at all, he thrusts it back into John’s possession and turns toward her.

“You said you went to a magical school? So you must have textbooks and such,” he says nonchalantly, trying to mask his excitement. 

“Yes, I do. In fact,” Hermione adds, heading towards the expansive bookcase near the wall, “I have a whole bookcase full of them.” Sherlock’s eyes light up and Hermione stifles a snort at the barely concealed thrill on his face. “But.”

“There’s always a ‘but,’” Sherlock mutters.

“I’m in deep trouble as it is, what with telling you about magic, and all.” Hermione turns back to John and Sherlock with her back pressed against the bookshelf. “I’m not going to further incriminate myself. It’s one thing to tell a Muggle all that pertains to one personally as a witch or wizard, but it is quite another to reveal every secret the wizarding world has to offer.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I can’t let you access this information.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Sherlock asks, his expression colder than before.

“Both, actually. But don’t worry. You won’t remember anything after I-” 

“After you what?” John interjects.

Hermione levels her wand at his forehead.

“After I erase your memory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, cliffhangers.


End file.
